


Headmess

by primreceded



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headmess

Instead.

There is sun, and it’s bright and shines through the leaves on the trees that line the road. You zig and zag through the shadows they cast on the asphalt, tilt your face to the sky. Almost let go of the handles, almost throw your hands out to the side to catch the wind and laugh. Almost, but you think better of it.

When you pull your bike into the gas station there is a car in the lot. The only one, and it sits to the side of the station; a hulking SUV that casts a shadow over you as you park beside it and hop off. It’s empty, and you can see a little girl and her mom playing in a small patch of grass through the windows. 

The girl spins, arms up to touch bright blue, her long, dark hair flying behind her as she giggles. Her mother sits in the grass, legs tucked beneath her and a small smile on her lips as she watches. You know, though, who she’s actually looking at. You can feel her eyes on you as you make your way across the lot and around the small building; they burn warm between your shoulder blades even after the door closes behind you.

The bathroom is chilly, smells; white porcelain grimy as you feel your hand along the wall to flick the light. The tube buzzes to barely-life, a fluttering nuisance in front of your eyes that casts little light. The buzzing continues even after you flick it back off. Your boots thump a muted, hollow echo as you cross the small room. There’s no running water when you try the faucet, the sink chipped and the drain’s a rusty broken hole in the middle and you wonder what you would find if you just stuck your hand down there. Maybe it holds the key to life, a scrap of paper with all the answers. Creeping crawlies. 

The door swings silently open, lighting up the crevices of the room that the neon tubing failed to reach, the whoosh of air sending the smell on a cyclone past your nose, piss and mold and something else acrid and old that you probably don’t want to think too closely about. 

You listen to the broken breathing behind you and wait, wait for that first tentative touch always because doing the touching is not an option. One little twitch and your house of cards will tumble into ash. 

“Cybil.”

Her voice breaks you, and you break your own rule when you turn and grab her. Not forceful, not hard no matter how hard you want to. She’s already spooked, and you want her to stay and stop talking because you _don’t talk now_ and she’s about to say something you won’t ever come back from. 

Your boot catches you short on a raised tile and you trip-push into her, hands gripped tight around her arms. She shakes lightly under your gloved fingers but you both know you’ll never hurt her. You are the one who is in danger here. You’re the sacrifice, strung up on a cross ready to burn for your sins, and it’s only a moment before she realizes. 

_“Please.”_

You hate how desperate you sound, but you are desperate, mouth pressed against her skin as you press her against the sink. She whimpers when the cold porcelain hits her bare thighs, and you smile into her neck. 

“You can’t,” you tell her. “I won’t let you.” 

You’re not giving up. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not.

You pin her to the sink with your hips, use your hands to take off your jacket. It falls silent to the dirty floor as you run a still gloved hand up her thigh, stopping short of anything. Giving her a chance to protest, to push you away and leave you here in this filthy bathroom. 

She doesn’t and you don’t give her a chance to change her mind, grabbing a gloved fistful of her skirt and yanking it up. You don’t take your time, because you don’t have time, and it’s only minutes before she’s a writhing mess beneath you, your mouth pressed against her neck again, biting lightly. 

She cries out, not your name, and slumps back against the sink. You don‘t move, breathing heavy, hands still but still on her. The air in your lungs is heavy and thick, with dread with confusion with her, and you don’t know what to do now. 

She pushes you away. 

She straightens her skirt, eying the floor and not you. It goes like this, she’ll make her leave and you’ll go home and wait again. 

Always waiting, and now hoping. 

The door opens behind you, and there is light again, fresh air again. Her hand is in yours, again, and she’s taking you with her. Instead.


End file.
